


be nice to me

by crispy_ceasar



Series: kids smoking in cemeteries (trying to remember what it's like to be nothing again) [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, help im failing school bc of this, i wrote this instead of doing my homework uh, look the fandom needs more techno angst and i'll provide it singlehandedly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26822476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispy_ceasar/pseuds/crispy_ceasar
Summary: the entranceway is bathed in warmth, earth toned and clutter resting everywhere. phil’s keys on the side table. tommy and wilbur’s schoolbags flung against the far wall. scuffed sneakers tossed into a plastic bin. it looks lived in. like a home.there’s no evidence of a third child anywhere.ortechno finds it a little hard to cope
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Dave | Technoblade, Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: kids smoking in cemeteries (trying to remember what it's like to be nothing again) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000830
Comments: 380
Kudos: 1601





	1. there is very little left of me, and it's never coming back

**Author's Note:**

> helloo this is my first fic i hope u like it! 
> 
> tw // dissociation, light suicidal ideation, implied depression

“...noblade?” 

the sensation was almost nice, he supposed. almost like he was floating in space, untethered. he didn’t have any lasting thoughts. they wandered past his focus, never staying for long. he didn’t feel anything.

“techno?” he recognized that voice. he couldn’t remember where or who it was, those thoughts completely nonexistent. he was nothing. no one.

“are you okay?” the voice was back. techno blinks rapidly, not aware of anything. fuck. where was he?

“hello?” the voice is laced with concern. he feels himself coming back involuntarily. a hand on his shoulder cuts through the white noise. he turns slightly. it’s dream. he stares at techno, brow furrowing, eyes soft with worry. woah. he holds eye contact, blinking more. he parts his lips to speak, but can’t find any words to say.

“we’re at my house, in my room. uh, here i’m gonna touch you okay?” oh right. dream’s room. why is he here? who is he? who is dream? he reaches out, trying to grab something, anything. his hands press against the cold floor. he pushes harder. the bedframe is digging into his spine. he tries desperately to cling onto the glimmer of conciseness, and claw his way back to reality. 

dream is touching him. why? the teen is talking, the words not caught by techno’s ears just yet. he slowly becomes aware of where his body is. half sprawled on the floor pressed against the bed. dream is in his personal space, braiding his hair? the focus ebbs back into his mind, little by little. he’s in dream’s room. he’s alive. dream is touching him.

“fuck” he mutters. dream pulls away slightly to look at him. “hey, are you okay? i think you disassociated.” dream says, staring earnestly into his eyes. techno averts his own.

“yeah.” he sighs, pulling away even more and running a hand through his pink locks. “i do that a lot.” he draws his knees close to his body and curls up smaller, almost subconsciously.

dream tries to mask his worry, and fails. “wow dude that sucks. you know i’m here for you right?” he says, after failing to come up with something better. techno gives him a slight smile anyway.

“thanks dream.” the fading evening light shines on his friend’s face, lighting his bedroom aglow making everything feel altered and fake. “how long?” he says quietly.

“maybe an hour? you just weren’t responding for like 30 minutes.” an hour? it had felt like ten minutes.

“sorry.” he mumbles, quieter.

“no need.” dream flashes him a signature dream smile, wide and all teeth. “i’ll walk you home, c’mon.”

he sends a glance at the papers strewn around the room, textbook left open. “what about…” he starts. “i’ll finish the project.” dream interrupts softly. “you’re not really in a state where you can do it, i think.” he shrugs, nods once. looks at dream and hope he understands everything techno just can’t say. he gets to his feet unsteadily, just like after all the other episodes.

dream is handing him his bag. they don’t speak, and exit into the fresh evening air. techno takes deep breaths of it while trying to remember how to be alive again. that was a bad one. and he doesn’t remember what triggered it.

“dream.” “hm?” the taller man in question looks over. “what were we doin' before i, uh, zoned out?” the blonde thought for a second. “you were reading the textbook and i looked up to ask you something and you were completely unresponsive.” dream taps his chin. “that was an hour ago.”

“i don’t remember what did it.” he mutters, kicking a rock down the street. he doesn’t want to face the fact that maybe it was nothing. maybe it just happened, like the one last week, and two days before that. they’re getting more frequent, more intense, and happen for no reason. what’s happening to him?

“jeez.” dream says sympathetically. “i know we’re not like, the best of friends but i can see that you’re not okay. and i just… hope you get through it.” his throat tightens with some emotion. he’s too tired to identify it. he’s grateful for dream, he really is. the teen was nothing but understanding, even talking him down.

“thank you, dream.” his usually monotonous voice cracks on the other boys name. he pretends not to notice.

dream stops walking. techno almost doesn’t notice. his head is still a little far away, even if he’s trying to fight it off. oh right. his house. his dark eyes travel up the driveway, to the large house with large windows and a garage and music playing faintly from open windows. he feels very out of place all of a sudden. the house wasn’t made for broken kids like him, kids who liked to talk with their fist, and shut the world out when everything became too much. his hands clench by his sides.

“you gonna be okay?” dream’s voice cuts through his thoughts again. dream reaches out again, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. techno turns to the other boy, managing an exhausted smile.

“yeah. thanks dream.”

“anytime.” and with that he turns and walks back down the sideway. techno watches him until he rounds the corner and disappears. he turns to face the house. the fading daylight casts long shadows on the sidewalk. he reluctantly trudges forward. the front walk is all cobblestone, bordered with the colorful flowers that phil loves so dearly. a cool breeze ruffles his obnoxiously pink hair. just another thing that makes him different then them. he steps into the porch and hesitates at the front door.

he loves his family, he really does. but sometimes he feels like he just wants to run. run run run until he can’t anymore and then end it all. somewhere, probably alone. techno sighs again, only to get rid of the rising anxiety, and opens the door. he immediately flinches at the loud click it makes, and creaks on its hinges as he pushes it open. the entranceway is bathed in warmth, earth toned and clutter resting everywhere. phil’s keys on the side table. tommy and wilbur’s schoolbags flung against the far wall. scuffed sneakers tossed into a plastic bin. it looks lived in. like a home.

there’s no evidence of a third child anywhere. he stands there for a minute, listening to the chatter coming from the kitchen. he hears tommy’s loud exclamations, wilbur making fun of him just as loudly. phil trying to get them to stop, but laughing through his protests. the smell of tomato soup wafts around the corner. technos never felt more empty. he abruptly turns on his heel, heading up the stairs to his room. shaking hands curled into fists.

their voices fade as he shuts the door behind him and slides down it, curling into a ball again. he runs his hands through his hair, before shoving his head into his hands. he feels something bubbling up at the back of his throat, a feeling which leaves hot tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. he hears a particularly loud laugh from tommy downstairs, and the emptiness grows.

techno rests the back of his head on the wooden door and the tears start running down his face. he’s too tired to even sob, or wipe them away. they soak the collar of his hoodie, leaving it wet against his neck but he doesn’t move. he sits there, staring into nothing.

after a long time, he gets up. he locks the door, hands shaking slightly. he’s dimly aware that he’s having another episode. again? it had barely been thirty minutes since the last one. his eyes wander to the clock.

oh oops, scratch that. it had been around two hours since he arrived home. what? how? fuck. a strangled noise, half between a sob and a whimper escapes his throat. his head hurts, his stomach hurts, he just wants to go to sleep. maybe forever. shaking his head, he stumbles over to the bed where he collapses on top of the covers, still in his clothes. curling up, he just succumbs to the emptiness, letting his mind become unaware again. he halfheartedly tries to tell himself it’s not giving up. he knows better then to lie to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this at 2am while crying to the front bottoms, so, not my best work but uhh thanks for reading :))


	2. it's no big surprise you turned out this way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the support on the first chapter <3 i was stoned asf when writing this but i think it's good :)

he still remembers the day he came to live with phil.

he had been twelve, escorted by the social worker up the drive of a nice clean house. the siding was blue and the flowerbeds were trim. he already knew he’d be gone in a week. the house just had the look. it would be a blonde man and women, coming to greet their new foster kid. they’d open the door with bright smiles, and falter at the sight of a scrawny twelve year old wearing all black and chains with a dead look in his eyes. they’d look at the scar on his nose and his still healing busted lip, and tell the social worker to turn him back around. that they didn’t want him.

he glared at his feet, shuffling as slow as he could up the cobblestone walk. his social worker placed her hand on his shoulder, and he jerked away, whipping around to glare at her. he wasn’t going to make this easy. the social worker, of course, ignored the boy and knocked twice on the oaken door. techno waited, hiding behind her slightly even if he kinda wanted to punch her. behind the door was a hard click, and techno’s breath caught in his throat.

the door swung open, and out stepped a short blonde man with a huge grin. techno tensed up even more. he didn’t look mean, but techno’d had enough experiences to know that didn't mean anything.

“hey there! come on in guys. i’m phil, and you must be technoblade.” the man said cheerfully, opening the door wider for the duo. techno stared.

the social worker put a bony hand on his back again and he audibly gasped, jerked around, and a small arm covered in bandaids slapped her hand away. the boy backed away from her, summoning his best withering glare. she looked shocked for a second and smoothed herself out.

“alright then, uh we’ll sit down somewhere yes?” the flustered woman said to phil. techno was already tuning her out, glaring at the floor again. he _really_ wasn’t gonna make this easy. the man, phil, lead them to a warm toned living room smelling vaguely of pumpkin spice. he gestured for them to sit, and techno sat down stiffly on the farthest corner of the couch he could. phil sat down and folded his hands in his lap, still smiling patiently. the social worker’s smile looked a bit strained. good.

“would you like anything? tea, water?” phil asked them.

“i’m good thanks.” said the woman. “i’ll be on my way soon enough.” she pulled out some files from her bag, and reached across to hand them to phil.

“just some stuff to sign, and we’ll be done here.”

after several agonizing minutes of scratching of a pen on paper, phil handed them back to the woman. she nodded, stood up and dusted herself off. techno wanted to wipe the horrible smile right off her face.

“try not to get into too much trouble.” she said, barely concealing the contempt in her tone. techno glared into his lap. he hadn’t looked up once.

the woman made a hasty exit, the door making a final slamming noise through the house, as if concealing his fate. a dark emotion rose up in his chest, almost akin to fear, but he swallowed it, and raised his head to look at phil for the first time.

the man was smiling, his posture open and welcoming.

“why don’t i show you around.” he said, standing. techno nodded shortly. the man lead him through the house, to a room he would come to call his own. the sheets looked clean and fresh, the window open and a candle quietly burning on the bedside table. the child's gaze darted around the room, before he turned to look at phil.

“hopefully you can add some more of your personality to this place eventually.” he said cheerily. “oh, and there is someone you should meet.”

the boy tensed up again, hands gripping the sleeves of his hoodie.

“wil?” phil called. immediately there was the sounds of someone tumbling off a bed and coming down the hall. techno stared holes through the doorway, and a boy appeared there. around his age, with messy curly hair framing his face and glassed perched on his freckled nose. he grinned, almost looking shy as he shuffled his feet.

“nice to meet you, i’m wilbur!” techno stared. after the silence had gone on for just a beat too long, he decided to say something.

“hi.” he said, and nearly cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. wilbur grinned, gaining confidence.

“and you’re technoblade, right?”

the younger just nodded, so wilbur tried again.

“how old are you? i”m thirteen.”

“twelve.” he told the older boy, slightly unsure.

“cool, we’re like the same age.” he laughed, tugging on his beanie. techno looked him up and down. the other boy was lanky, and taller then techno by a lot. despite this, he looked weak, fragile, and techno knew he could take him down if needed.

he subconsciously made himself look bigger, standing as tall as he could.

“well.” said phil, looking awkward. “it’s dinnertime so why don’t we go eat yeah? i’m sure you’ve had a long day technoblade.” the boy shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, and nodded again. wilbur and his dad never stopped smiling and techno wondered when they’d stop. when they’d finally realize he was nothing but a problem and call his social worker, and send him back to the group home.

they sat around a heavy oak table and phil brought out plates of homemade spaghetti with garlic bread. phil started a conversation with wilbur about school, leaving techno to digest what had happened that day. as he picked at his garlic bread, he found himself desperately hoping that this place would be better. that it could become a home, where parents didn’t yell and make the house shake with the force of their anger, where he wouldn’t have to fight other kids just to survive, where he wouldn’t have to be scared of the people he was living with.

it was stupid, he thought as he looked at wilbur and phil, so bright and happy and good and nice and clean. nothing like him.

it wouldn’t last, he had assured himself. it wouldn’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this is formatted weird lmk i'm bad at this :0 hope u enjoyed


	3. what's it matter anymore, if you believe the lies i tell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the next chapter :) lmao i was listening to more front bottoms and phoebe bridgers so y'know its gonna hit
> 
> tw // dissociation, slight self harm, descriptions of blood, general descriptions of depression

recovery is not linear. 

that’s what techno tells himself when he wakes up with a familiar heaviness spreading in his chest, through his ribcage and in the pit of his stomach. 

recovery is not linear, so even though he was doing well the past couple days, feeling more motivated, maybe went to bed before 2am, its fine, right?

(barring last night’s episode. it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter.)

it shouldn’t matter, but as soon as his bare feet hit the floor he wants to curl back up in his bed and forget about the world. he isn’t strong enough to argue with himself. techno gets back in bed. the world fades away again. 

(he knows he’s been spiraling)

he wakes up almost four hours later, to the buzzing of his phone. blinking the sleep out of his tired eyes, he fumbles for it on the bedside table, bringing it close to his face and squinting. 

6 missed calls from “dad”  
2 missed calls from tomathy  
7 messages from “dad”

oh fuck, he thinks, panic jolting him awake. he grabs his glasses and shoves them on his face as he opens the messages. 

7:49  
are you awake

8:37  
techno are you awake

8:50  
you just got marked absent for first period??? where are you

8:51  
are you sick techno?

8:55  
answer me technoblade 

9:01  
wilbur said he didn’t see you all morning

9:27  
techno please answer me

shit. he scrubs his face with open palms. he hadn’t even been thinking at all when he turned off his alarm this morning and went back to bed. he types out a quick reply, hesitating momentarily over the send button. does he really want to lie? yes, he decides. lying is ten times better then telling phil the truth. he doesn’t think he can do that to him. 

9:54  
shit sorry dad i woke up feeling a little sick and forget to tell you i stayed home.

of course it was a blatant lie. well, not entirely, he had felt sick. just not in the way he wanted phil to think. techno didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

9:55  
that’s okay i’ll call you in sick

he simply sent a thumbs up in reply, and let his phone fall onto the sheets from his limp grasp. he sighed, adrenaline leaking out of him. he was so tired.

he let his body fall back into the bed, eyes burning holes through the ceiling. so, what now? the thought of doing anything was too much, too overwhelming. his chest tightened. 

okay so, he was staying here. techno stared up at the ceiling. hunger burned low in his stomach, but the prospect of getting food was too much. it was all too much.

everything.

everyone. 

too much.

he rubbed his eyes, taking in a shaky breath.

hold it together.

hold it together.

the ceiling was white, and there was a long crack running along it. the fan hummed, and faint light seeped through the corners of the curtains.

it was nice. 

and then it was nothing.

n o t h i n g

he fades back in to the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. he blinks in vague confusion, looking around just to confirm where he is. fuck. another episode. he sits up and rubs his bleary eyes, just in time for tommy to practically kick down his door in a scramble to get in. 

“techno!!” the excitable eighth grader yells. techno winced, the loud sound sending a shooting pain through his skull. he saw tommy took notice, and concern briefly flashed across his face.

“hey nerd.” techno says, pasting a fake grin on his face. his head is full of fog. 

a quick glance at the clock confirms that it’s now 2:57pm. fuck.

“why’d you stay home? i mean i get it i wouldn’t want to go to school either but you could’ve invited me.” he makes an exaggerated pouting face, prompting an eye roll from techno. 

“like i’d voluntarily spend time with you.” he quips. tommy laughs, and turns to leave. 

“come downstairs bitch!” he exclaims, motioning for techno to follow. techno sighs, and uses what little energy he can muster to get out of bed and follow the blonde downstairs. tommy seemed to have endless energy, and techno can’t understand where he gets it from. 

on the way down the stairs, they pass the mirror in the hallway. techno catches a glimpse of himself and falters, falling behind to stare at his reflection. he looks… dead. there are dark purple bags under his eyes, he looks pale, and his pink hair is even more of a mess then usual. yikes. his head is pounding, pain shooting through his skull with each breath. he looks dead.

he hears tommy calling for him, so he tears his eyes away from the mirror and follows. 

down in the kitchen, wilbur is placing marshmallows in a round pan. when he sees techno he breaks into a grin and rolls his eyes.

“tommy literally begged me to make him s'mores dip, since he’s not allowed to use the stove after the incident.” 

“hey! i’m a cooking genius.” the boy retorts.

“ah, so that’s why the kitchen was on fire.” techno deadpans. wilbur laughs behind him, and tommy glares.

“it was just a new cooking method.” he insists. techno snickers. 

wilbur shoves the pan into the oven and slams it shut, turning back to his brothers with a grin.

“so how was your day gremlin.” he said, grabbing tommy to ruffle his hair. the thirteen year old yelled and squirmed out of his grasp.

“don’t manhandle me wilbur, i am a man. and my day was great! me and tubbo are doing a project for science and…” tommy rambled on, wilbur nodding occasionally, keeping the affectionate smile on his face. 

techno felt something twist inside his chest. he felt it rise in his throat and quickly pushed it down.

what is wrong with you, he scolded himself. literally what is wrong with you. stop it. we’re having a happy moment. stop. 

the oven beeps and techno flinches. wilbur shoots him a concerned look, but gets up to grab the dip. techno just face plants into the cool wood of the table. his head is sending frantic pulses of pain shooting through his skull. the headache worsens all of a sudden, and he involuntarily makes a small noise of pain. 

wilbur comes back, he can see the teen’s lanky legs in his peripheral vision. 

“are you good?” wilbur asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“mhmm” he mumbles, cringing away from his touch, “just sick.”

“eugh get away from me.” tommy sniffs, “i don’t want him to get me sick.” wilbur shakes his head at tommy. 

“have you eaten today?” 

“oh uh, no.” he says into the table. 

“jesus christ, okay fucking eat idiot.” wilbur rolls his eyes, and shoves a plate of graham crackers at him. he sighs. 

“thanks.” he mumbles.

they dig into the dip, tommy telling a story with wide frantic gestures and a manic grin. techno mostly tunes it out, just staring at the boy through half lidded eyes. he can’t tell if he’s falling asleep or having another episode, but everything starts to feel fake. like sunlight glinting off of things that are very plastic, like a vr video game with realistic graphics, a nightmare that feels a little too real. 

dissociation happens when you can’t deal with things that are too much. and it’s useful that it started to happen when he was panicking, but now it happens all the time. all the time. how can he stop it? he can’t. 

he wanted to stop feeling anxious. he hated it. but he didn’t have any coping mechanisms, really. so he just, shut down. he wanted to stop feeling anxious, but he just. stopped feeling. 

somewhere in between a distinct then, and a distinct now, something inside him broke. broken. he was broken. 

“you good big man?” a hand waving in front of his face. he looks up, slowly, oh so very slowly. tommy. it’s tommy.

“uhmm.” he tries to speak. tries to grab onto something, anything, and come back. pain. there’s pain. he jolts up in his seat, wilbur and tommy both staring at him. everything feels so raw. real, all of a sudden. 

“i’m just sick.” he tells them. “dunno where i caught it.”

“maybe you should go to bed.” says wilbur, looking him up and down. 

“mhmm.” he mumbles. pushes the chair away from the table. gets up, and stumbles away, shaking his head to wake himself up. fuck. everything still feels fuzzy.

he climbs the stairs, dragging his feet, feeling heavy. so heavy. he doesn’t remember getting to his room. 

an odd sensation. he notes. what…? oh fuck, he thinks. faint panic spreads through him. there’s blood dripping sluggishly down his arm. he rushes to the mirror, twisting it around to look. carved into the soft flesh were five crescent moon shapes, one bleeding a single rivulet of bright red blood. 

he’s breathing really fast, too fast. faster than normal. what? how had he not realized he’d done that to himself. 

what the fuck. he stares into his own eyes, wide and scared, chest moving up and down. what the fuck. okay, before it drips on the carpet. quick. fucking hell.

he just wipes it up with a tissue, swaying in place for a second at loss of what to do. he looks at the clock again. 

it reads 4:03pm. okay. he tosses the bloody tissue in the trash, and sits heavily on the side of the bed. takes a deep breath in. holds it for four. releases it. fine. 

he was fine. 

he hears the slamming of a door downstairs, and his brothers yelling a greeting to his dad. phil’s home. he rubs his eyes hard, sighing again. keep it together. 

breathe. breathe.

there’s a light knock on his door.

“techno?” came phils muffled voice through the thick wood. 

“yeah.” he says, trying desperately to sound normal. 

phil pushes open the door with a creak, and peeks in. his eyes fall upon his adopted son, and his expression morphs into fatherly concern.

“you look sick.” phil says, walking forward to place a hand on techno’s forehead. he frowns.

“you’re a little warm.” 

“yeah, well i’m sick.” he deadpans. 

phil nods, chewing on his lip. techno looked away from his gaze. 

“just get some sleep okay. i’m gonna make soup.” phil ruffles his son’s pink hair again before stepping away and out of the room. the door shuts softly behind him. techno stares at the back of it, listening to phils fading footsteps. 

when he doesn’t hear the man’s footfalls anymore, he shrugs on a black hoodie and opens his window. he paused again to listen for the others in the house, before popping the screen out and swinging a leg over the windowsill.

he needed to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty for reading! pls lemme know if this is formatted strange and some feedback if u want <3 i feel like some parts come off weird and clunky but i have been staring at it for days so-


	4. i have this dream that i am screaming underwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i- ok listen this is so incoherent but i mean it just kinda happened
> 
> tw // suicidal ideation, drowning (no one drowns btw!), small knife mention

it was half dark, the setting sun all but a soft glow on the horizon, the sky a grey colour, deepening into purple like a healing bruise. the clouds twisted around each other and the moon hung low in the sky, a slender crescent above the treeline.

techno sat on the end of the dock that was on the property somewhere down in the woods. they used to come here in the summers. they don’t go anymore, but he remembers one summer when phil stained the dock a bright cherry red and made wilbur help him, the older boy complaining the whole time. after that they’d had lemonade and sat outside in the bright sunshine and wind and freshwater lapping at the rocks underneath them. 

he traces his toe along the water, and wonders what happened to them. the surface of the water is black and brackish, so different from his childhood memory of clear rippling water and small iridescent fish darting around. when was the last summer they’d come here? two, three years ago? 

tommy had been young and excited, and threw himself off the dock with a yelp of excitement. wilbur raced after him with a splash and techno had trailed behind, grinning and watching them flail and fling water in each others eyes.

what happened? he pauses. 

everything is so silent and for a second maybe it could feel like he’s the only one left on the planet. he pulls one knee close to his chest and rests his chin on it. nights like these he feels like he could just disappear into the fog and no one would notice. the water glitters enticingly. 

he leans toward it, sighing and reaching down to skim the surface. fuck. it would be so easy. he doesn’t know how to swim that well. it would be over quick if he just gave up. 

when he was thirteen he had tried to run away. he got in a weird mood, and just left through the front door. he hadn’t even told anyone where he was going, hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. the rain fell down in sheets and it was so horribly grey. but he walked around, eyes downcast and hood pulled up. he was thirteen and so full of anger and sadness and trauma that twisted around inside of him like a sickness. 

so he ran. techno knew how to live on the streets, knew how to look like you could kill someone with your bare hands so people would leave you alone, knew how to steal and lie and manipulate almost like a second nature.

but he realized as he sat on a public bench, that he was tired of it. tired of what? maybe running away, being alone, lying, pulling a knife on people three times your size and trying to pretend you aren’t shaking. or maybe he was just tired. 

whatever the reason, techno suddenly wanted to see phil and wilbur again. 

so, he got on the next bus going into his neighborhood and pressed his face against the frosty glass until it went numb. he paid with $20 he’d swiped from the desk on his way out. 

the bus stopped and he numbly got off and walked three blocks until his legs felt like they were going to fall off. walked up the cobblestone sidewalk directly to his front door and just walked in. just like nothing had even happened.

he remembers how he listened intently for sounds of people who’d realized he’d arrived. maybe noticed how there was twenty dollars stolen from phil’s wallet in the desk and a missing pocket knife from a locked drawer in the kitchen. 

low sounds of the tv had drifted from the living room, and he crept up the hall until he could lean against the wall and see directly into the room, phil watching a show, doing something on his work laptop. he looked content. 

techno stares at him, shaking his head and turning around only to come face to face with none other than wilbur. he goes rigid. wilbur only punches him lightly on the arm and says,

“where were you all day? i wanted to play minecraft”, 

then skips away to the kitchen. he blinks. furrows his brow and then sighs, turning to walk up the stairs. no one noticed. no one noticed? how. he had been gone for a whole day and no one was even slightly concerned? 

it made no sense.

or maybe at the time it did make sense, because they knew, how could they not have noticed, but they just didn’t care, thought maybe it would be better if he’d never caught the bus back. or maybe drowned in the lake in the back of the house. he wasn’t a strong swimmer. it could look like an accident. phil had once warned them there was a riptide, not too far, in the middle of the lake, a swift cold current that would drag you under and fill your lungs with darkness and spit your mangled body back out on the other side of the bay. he told them to be careful. 

shut up. he said in his mind. shut up. tired dark eyes scanned the lake one last time before standing, and turning back to make his way back down the path. that’s enough lamenting. 

secretly he thought after a couple more minutes of sitting there he might’ve done something he’d regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao its kinda a filler cuz things are getting interesting soon! next chapter is actually like the fav thing i’ve ever written so im excited >:) hope u liked


	5. rip to my youth (and you could call this the funeral)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh so this one i’m excited to post ahh! its a lil longer and kinda intense but im proud of it
> 
> tw // intense description of self harm, blood, suicidal ideation, weed mention
> 
> HEED MY WARNING OKAY I KINDA SNAPPED ON THIS

breaking through the skin is harder than he thought. 

he feels so incredibly stupid sitting on the floor between his bed and the wall, holding a razor blade loosly. it’s sharp, but not extremely so, still an experimental drag across the skin had only been a soft pink line. 

it makes him wonder how damn hard he’d pinched himself the other day. hard enough to bleed. not hard enough to scar.

this is so stupid, he thought. i’m stupid. fuck. 

the razor blade glinted innocently up at him. it should’ve been used to shave phil’s stubble in the mornings before he went to work. not clutched in the shaking hand of his teen son. he thinks he feels something inside him break. 

no one’s home. tommys at tubbo’s. wilbur is… he’s not sure where wilbur is. phil is working late. and he’s curled up on the floor

the curtains blow and the wind makes a whistling noise through the tree outside his bedroom window. it’s cold. it’s very cold and that could be because the window is open but it also could be because he’s been dead for a very long time. 

techno stares at the little thing. it stares back. 

slowly, very slowly he brings it to his thigh. slowly he presses down. he holds his breath and the world seems to as well, wind dying down. the room was so very still, dust particles suspended in time. the silence blanketed his senses. white noise.

why am i doing this. this is so dumb. i need to stop. 

ow. fuck.

he doesn’t know what he expected to happen. maybe something a bit more dramatic, bloody. but it’s just him, staring at a line of blood welling up where the silver had kissed it. he stares at it. it stares back. 

i guess i need to do it harder. 

and it doesn’t feel like him doing it, doesn’t feel like him taking the stupid piece of metal and making himself bleed. he rakes it across the tops of his thighs and just begs for something to happen, blood well up and drip down onto the cold floor and if he’s lucky maybe he’ll hit an artery and bleed out and fucking die. 

there’s blood. there’s a stupidly small amount of blood and it wells up in small amounts and bubbles through, dotting the lines here and there. he stares at one particularly big one, watching it just gain enough viscosity to pathetically slide down the side of his leg.

a single drop, barely a drop. 

the razor blade clatters to the floor, such a big sound in the silent room and the wind starts whistling again and the dust particles continue their slow drift around the room, the world keeps turning on its axis. and techno takes one long shuddering breath. and that’s it.

and god it stings and it hurts, wildly making up for what he feels inside, which is weirdly nothing. just empty. he thought he’d be crying. or maybe panicking. but there is nothing but the low thrum of the fan and the matter of making sure no one knew.

okay. okay.

he picks it up from the floor, such a small thing yet the cause of so much pain. so much destruction. it’s almost funny. he almost laughs. almost. 

he doesn’t know what to do, so he ends up wetting paper towels and rubbing, which hurts like a bitch and was probably a bad idea. he rummages through the first aid kit, oddly humming to himself. he thought he’d feel more then this. more unstable. 

he ends up just slapping the largest bandaids he could find on top of the damages, and wiping the razor clean with paper towel. he cleans everything up nice, straightens the soaps in front of the kit so nothing looks out of place. there is blood in the sink. he turns on the tap and watches it swirl down the sink in a rush of clear water and thinks he might be too far from saving.

and he goes and tapes the razor blade to the underside of the bottom drawer of his nightstand. yanks on black sweatpants over his boxers and there, everything looks normal. everything looks normal and he wonders if it’s obvious that everything is in fact, very far from normal. the worst part is that he didn’t even cry. what is wrong with him?

and he wanders around the house feeling half like a ghost and half like something wrong that shouldn’t be allowed to exist. he passes tommy‘s room, weirdly neat and clean. with his personality you’d expect his room to be messy and colorful and exploding with personality but its simple and painted white. he has his desk in the corner and trash can with a concerning amount of coke cans. 

wilbur’s room is dark. the curtains are drawn, and the bed isn’t made. it isn’t too messy though. there’s a red lighter sitting on his desk, and techno dimly hopes he remembers to hide it before phil sees. he wonders why wilbur owns a lighter. 

the door to phil‘s room is closed, but he doesn’t bother. he knows what he’d see. neatly made bed, green walls and a tv mounted on the opposite wall. when they were kids the door had been left open every night. now it stayed firmly shut. he doesn’t remember when the door closed.

he walks down the stairs, creaking as he descends. he glances at the door, wondering idly if he should go for a walk, but the lack of energy weighs him down when he starts toward it. fine then.

instead, he just collapses in a chair at the kitchen table. he’s sure he looks like a wreck. he can’t remember when he showered last, which is really gross and probably something he should care about at least a little bit, but he really doesn’t. he doesn’t care about much lately. maybe he should go shower? not like he has anything else to do.

you are oddly calm for someone who was doing what you were doing twenty minutes ago, said the voice in his head.

shut up, he tells it. 

he was trying to muster the energy to actually get up, when he hears the unmistakable clicking sound of the front door. even though he knows there’s no way whoever it was would be able to tell, it still dimly burns inside his stomach. fear. he shakes his head, and swallows. act normal. be normal for once, fucking hell. 

he hears two voices, easily recognizable. it’s wilbur and his friend schlatt. they are speaking in low voices, breaking into laughter every few seconds and trying to shut each other up. that’s fine, he can work with that. 

the two round the corner and freeze when they see techno. schlatt glances at wilbur.

“hey techno what’s, uh, going on? me and schlatt were just, uh, doing fun legal things.” wilbur blurts out. schlatt facepalms in the background. both of them have bloodshot eyes. oh.

techno raises an eyebrow. 

“you’re not foolin’ me.” he says monotonously. “i don’t care though; and i mean i’m not gonna tell phil.” 

wilbur and schlatt visibly relax at that, wilbur letting out a sigh. 

“oh big man, i thought we were toast.” rasps schlatt, clapping wilbur on the back. 

“oh now i want toast.” wilbur said lighting up.

“fuck yeah.” 

techno shakes his head. the two teens start ransacking the kitchen on unsteady feet and with stilted giggles. 

“techno do you like drugs.” schlatt called, with an evil smirk. this sent wilbur into a fit of giggles, who had to grip the counter to stay upright. 

techno shrugs, a tinge of red showing around his ears. 

“meh.” what was he playing at?

schaltt giggles. “techno, wilbur mentioned you have some, ah, medications i might like.” 

oh. realization hit him.

“you want adderall?” schlatt laughs, clapping his hands once. 

“you get it, you get it.” he yanks a sweaty ten dollar bill out of his pocket and waves it around. “so, what about it?” 

“yeah sure.” he sighs, getting up from the table to the cabinet over the fridge and pulling a little yellow pill bottle out. schlatt‘s eyes gleam. 

wilbur giggles again, buttering his toast. 

techno shakes the bottle a little before flicking it open with the practiced air of someone who’s done it every day, and slips a single pill out. 

schlatt is up and right behind him before he even turns. he rolls his eyes and drops it into schlatt’s waiting hand. the teen’s shark-like grin only widens and he slaps the bill into techno’s hand. 

“pleasure doing business with you.” he cackles. 

“mhm.” techno mumbles, turning to leave. he can hear wilbur saying something about his “baby brother becoming a drug dealer” behind him. 

the pink haired teen heads back up the stairs. slowly. he’s so very tired. so tired it aches inside of his bones and weighs down on every vein, every bone, every artery and muscle. it hurts. 

with heavy footsteps, he arrives in front of the bathroom he’d just watched himself bleed in thirty minutes ago.

time to shower for the first time in… 

well it doesn’t matter does it.

staring up at the doorway, the sound of wilbur and schlatt’s laughter echoes up the stairs after him, haunting him like a ghost. he ignores it. 

he flicks on the light and rummages for soap.

the shower is gonna fucking sting. weirdly he looks forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh did y’all like that-  
> KINDA MAD CUZ IT WAS LIKE 5 PAGES IN DOCS BUT IT LOOKS SO SMALL-  
> n e ways  
> its literally been mostly hurt/like 10% comfort up until now but the next chapters are gonna start getting Good trust me
> 
> thank u for reading ily all mwah <3


	6. i can't handle change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy it's been a while! i wrote this technically over three days but its been weeks LMAO apparently i can only write when ignoring crippling amounts of homework. but she's here, and ngl this might be my fav chappie
> 
> tw // suicidal thoughts, self harm ment, uh generally depressing, mental breakdown (?)
> 
> AND IM AWARE THIS IS OOC

it’s 8:57pm on a wednesday night and techno feels like dying. 

it’s from nothing in particular. maybe it’s from the way long strands of cotton candy hair fell away in long strands when he brushed it for the first time in a long time. maybe it’s because there is blood on the sleeves of his favourite sweater and it won’t come out. maybe it’s the way phil had asked him if he’d seen his last razor with a calm smile, and techno lied straight to his face. maybe it’s the way wilbur posted a video of schlatt high on adderall on his private story. the one techno didn’t know he had, because he wasn’t on it. maybe it’s the way he had been told that by eret, who was on the private story. she'd seemed surprised when he said that he had no clue that wilbur even had one. 

maybe he’s tired.

the feeling is so hard to articulate, he thinks as he lays on his carpet. the feeling is maybe half-tired, half-done, the knowledge that there is a bottle of tylenol in the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink, and the knowledge that it could kill you. the exact feeling is hard to pinpoint, but it dawns on you suddenly, almost like an epiphany but something welling up from all the dark places inside of you. i want to die, you think. i want to die i want to die i want to die, i want to die, maybe a little desperately. maybe a little too much to the point of being dangerous. 

the ceiling fan emits a constant, steady whir. tommy is in his room, door firmly shut, but the sound of him talking to a friend can be heard through it. wilbur is in his room, the door open a crack and soft guitar music flooding through. the lights are soft and warm toned and the vents gush warm air and as he walks down the hall it just hurts more and more and more until it feels like he might crack and split open and drip blood all over the hardwood floor.

his socked feet make no noise on the hardwood, almost as if he was never there at all. the hallway light flickers as he shuffles by. 

he hears phil in the kitchen, the gentle clink of dishes and splashes of water. almost involuntarily he walks down the stairs. feet carrying him towards comfort. the primal instinct of a scared kid somewhere deep inside yells, he will not hurt us. but we might. we might do something very bad to ourselves and we probably need to be stopped.

he hesitates outside the doorway, just outside of where phil can see him. he grips the doorframe and leans against it, squeezing his eyes shut. he’s not thinking straight. he’s not thinking straight and he’s afraid he might be dying and all he wants is for it to stop. 

he rounds the corner and enters, feet silent on the tile, and really he’s always been silent and good at not being noticed. maybe he was never that real to begin with. 

and phil turns and sees the boy, makes eye contact with him and smiles softly. 

“hey, come to talk to your old man?” 

and techno slips into a stool at the counter, and taps his fingers on the cool porcelain and his eyes are glassy and dark. and he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out, finds he can’t even try to throw on a shitty facade, not when he feels like he’s breaking. techno sees phil‘s happy gaze shift to one of concern out of the corner of his eye. 

“techno?” 

he shakes his head, pink hair falling like a curtain in front of his face and he hears phil put down a plate with a clink, and walk around the counter to where his son shakes in his seat. sees him take a seat in the stool next to him, sees him hover a hand over techno’s shoulder like he wants to touch him but doesn’t know how. 

he breaks. 

hot tears start cascading down his face so fast it barely registered in his mind that he was crying. and he hears phil make a sudden noise of surprise and finally touch his shoulder, and he sits up from where he’d bent over the counter and just looks at phil. tries to convey everything he can’t say out loud, which he’s not even sure what that is.

help me, maybe. i think i’m dying, or maybe already dead. maybe i’ve been dead for so fucking long and no one noticed.

and he’s being softly lead over to the living room now, held up by his dad’s strong grip on his arm and he stumbles as he sits on the sofa and he feels so horribly young, like a sixteen year old isn’t, in the grand scheme of things, still so very young.

he can feel himself flickering in and out of reality like a hummingbird, or the hall light, or the evening sun glinting off of the razor blade. it’s all hazy. but through the fog he thinks he is sobbing hard, harder then maybe he’s ever cried in his life. and phil pulls him into a hug, lets techno cry into his chest and strokes his hair. 

there is a warm slicing feeling through the bottom of his stomach, that snakes up through his chest and pulls at it. he might be shaking. his left hand is digging the nails into his right wrist, and phil gently pries them off. when was the last time someone did something so, tender, to him? he’s just a kid. it shouldn’t have been so long ago. just a kid. he’s just a kid. 

he thinks he hears phil mumbling something to him, but he can’t focus on it over the white noise in his head. he’s drifting again. but this time he welcomes it, because being aware inside his brain right now kind of sucks. although admittedly, he is tired of just clocking out when things get hard. 

unfortunately he doesn’t get to be blissfully unaware of what’s happening. everything just starts to feel fake. he knows it’s happening, it just feels like it’s happening to someone else. 

he feels phil’s arms tighten protectively around him, pulling him closer to his chest. the stairs down the hallway creak. the olive curtains sway with the cool breeze from the open window, bringing the sound of crickets chirping and the faraway rumble of the highway. it would’ve been peaceful, if he wasn’t just so fucking sad.

when phil gently pushes him up by the shoulders, it could’ve been five minutes or an hour. he really couldn’t tell you. at least he’d stopped crying. his glazed eyes drift up to meet phil’s and fuck does the man look concerned. if he could feel anything right now, he’d probably feel bad. oh well. 

“i’m gonna make us a drink okay, then we can talk” phil says softly, then gets up, taking the warmth with him. the cold seeps into techno’s bones, dripping through his veins bitterly. 

he tries to take a deep breath. he’s definitely not thinking clearly, but he knows that he doesn’t want phil to know… well anything. whether it’s because he feels almost ashamed, or embarrassed, or because he doesn’t want phil to worry about him. maybe both. maybe because when he finally says it out loud, it becomes real. concrete. something no longer hiding behind the curved walls of his skull, behind the dodged questions and the “i’m fine”s and the dark brown of his irises. real. 

you could just run right now, a voice in the back of his head pipes up. you could run away, out the back door and be gone by the time he gets back, gone as in down by the lake, gone as in standing at the end of that dock, gone as in freezing hand outstretched toward the surface of the lake. gone as in when they pull your mangled body from the lake your family will sob and it’ll be your fault but you won’t care cause you’ll be fucking dead. 

one of his hands is tugging on his hair now, hard enough to hurt and ground himself slightly. he probably looks crazy right now. whatever. 

his head reminds him that there’s still a bottle of tylenol in the cupboard over the fridge. 

or you could get your razor blades? the voice whispers. they’re actually phil’s, because you stole them from him because you’re a dirty little thief and a liar and you told him right to his face that you had no idea where they went, to ask tommy because he’s an idiot and probably tried to shave his nonexistent facial hair and then phil laughed and walked out of the room that you slice yourself up in every night without a second thought. he believed you because you’re the perfect little son right? doesn’t get into any trouble right? what about that time you won a fight and told him you tripped down the stairs and he believed you. he trusts you. and he fucking shouldn’t. right?

fuck. he thinks he’s having a panic attack, which is weird because he’s dissociated at the same time, so it brings a weird feeling of being detached from everything but also not being able to breathe. it claws its way up his throat, the panic. it almost feels foreign, it’s been so long. panic. huh. still, he recalls the method to calm down, learned from so many hours sat in a hard plastic chair in front of the therapist’s desk.

breath in for eight seconds.

hold for four.

release for seven.

repeat. 

slowly, very slowly the feeling ebbs away. breathe. breathe.

breath in for eight seconds.

hold for four.

release for seven.

he’s so exhausted. suddenly he’s so fucking exhausted and he just wants it all to be over. everything. techno’s just… so tired of feeling like this. 

phil walks back into the room holding two mugs of steaming hot chocolate and wearing a soft smile. techno feels like crying all over again. he manages not to, though, and the back of his throat aches. phil sets one of the mugs down in front of him and settles into the couch. 

“so.” he starts. techno grabs the mug and takes a sip, holding it with both hands for warmth. he doesn’t wanna do this. 

but phil keeps his body language calm and his gaze non-accusatory. it’s what techno likes about the blonde man. the way he can go from teasing and excited, to open and calm. how even his anger is reserved. 

“what’s going on?” he asks, brow furrowing in concern. techno lowers his eyesight to the mug. 

“i just…” he trails off. where does he even start? fuck. it’s so hard to even say it. to even say what’s wrong with him, hard to admit what he’s done.

“it’s just…” his eyes trace the patterns woven into the couch, “things are overwhelming, lately.” that’s safe right? that’s vague enough so that it really could be anything. 

what are you doing. his brain screams. don’t tell him anything. 

phil makes a noise of sympathy. “like…?” 

“i don’t know.” he mumbles, “school.” 

you idiot. that’s the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever said, he’s gonna know you’re lying, what the actual fuck is wrong with you? 

“are you finding it hard lately?”

“yeah.” 

“hmm.” phil says, “do you think you need a higher dosage? or maybe to switch medication?” 

wait. oh fuck. seriously? he thinks it’s just my adhd? he fell for it? 

“yeah, maybe.” he settles on saying.

you don’t need medication, his brain hisses. you need to be put down.

shut the fuck up, he thinks. just shut the fuck up. 

phil nods, oblivious to the internal struggle techno is going through right in front of him. 

“i’ll book a new appointment and we’ll see what we can do. in the meantime, do you want to stay home, and i can email your teachers?”

he feels like crying again. “mhm.” he whispers into the mug.

half of his brain is screaming to speak up, to start with actually that’s not all, to tell him about the stolen razor blades and the permanent haze that has fallen over him, or the hole where he thinks his emotions should be. 

the other half is saying that he should finally end it all tonight. 

yikes. 

phil pulls him into another hug, mugs clanking awkwardly together, and he rests his chin on the man's shoulder. disappointingly, after a few seconds he pulls away, but smiles softly at techno and says,

“wanna watch tv with me?” 

“...yeah.” he says, corners of his mouth quirking up. he settles in as phil flips channels to find survivor, a show which they all enjoy. he sips at the hot chocolate, and tries to forget about everything. everything. just relax. 

he hears movement behind him, the creaking of the floorboards and turns slightly to see wilbur hovering in the doorway. he looks almost shy, beanie pulled down low over his curly hair. 

“wanna join?” techno finds himself mumbling. wilbur’s features split into a wide smile and he slinks onto the couch, tucking himself in between techno and a throw pillow. 

it’s actually pretty cozy, now that he thinks of it. the evening has faded into cool night, sharp cold air drifting from the window contrasting the heat streaming from the vent. the lights are mostly off, except for the kitchen lights and a lamp on the side table. it’s nice. warm. his eyelids start to feel heavy. he’s so exhausted.

a pattering of footsteps from behind the couch makes him look up. and wouldn’t you know, it’s the youngest member of the family. tommy shuffles his feet, uncharacteristically quiet for the obnoxiously loud teen, who’d usually be yelling as soon as he entered the room.

“hey toms.” phil greets as soon as he sees the kid, “come join.” tommy grins suddenly, and it feels like the sun parting dark clouds, and he walks over and fits himself right into the space between wilbur and techno. they all shift to make room for his gangly form. at only thirteen, tommy is already five foot eleven. techno shudders to think how tall he’ll be when he finally stops growing. 

“you’re too fucking tall.” wilbur mutters. 

“shut up wilbur.” 

phil snorts. tommy just rolls his eyes and pointedly turns his head away from wilbur. 

they settle into silence, half paying attention to the show and half asleep.

he can’t tell how long it’s been, but his eyelids are getting more and more heavy, reality becoming fuzzier around the edges. he’s so tired. techno’s pretty sure tommy fell asleep on him about ten minutes ago, leaning against his forearm. wilbur’s slumped against the couch and his breaths are slow and even, but it’s hard to tell if he’s really asleep. in turn, techno’s pressed right against phil, head leaning against his shoulder. 

the warmth of his family is slowly lulling him to sleep, so with a final sigh he succumbs to the darkness and his eyes flutter shut. he thinks he feels a hand carding through his hair, but before he can tell he’s drifting off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh i hope yall liked? a little shred of the comfort but we're coming to the end now and hoo boy :))))) Prepare is all im saying
> 
> also i have literally three different oneshots on the go for my new fic so uuh be patient im Struggling and also in high school


	7. i got boulders on my shoulders (collarbones begin to crack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY AGAIN it's been a hot minute uh i'm ~depressed~.... so... motivation said FLEW but SHES HERE and part of why it took s o long is i wrote a whole ass other chapter 7 and was just like,,,,no so i scrapped it LMFAO anyways i hope u like this 
> 
> spoilers are in tw but ig u need to read it but be warned :)
> 
> tw // suicide attempt (overdose, pills), self harm ment, derealization/existential crisis

it’s a weird night, he muses staring up at the ceiling. he’s been staring at the ceiling so long he’s not even sure the ceiling exists anymore, maybe that it’s a blank canvas of the universe waiting to be painted with the stars and galaxies and the vast empty spaces in between. 97% of space is just well, empty space. fun fact. 97% of space is horribly empty and stretching, freezing cold and devoid of any sound. space is a vacuum. another fun fact. 

there is a supermassive black hole at the centre of everything that you can comprehend. a supermassive black hole that can expand on a whim and destroy everything that you know. you wouldn’t even see it coming because the second you could register it’s coming it would suck you in. not so fun fact, is that if you got sucked into a black hole, you would be falling forever, forced to feel your body being stretched for all of eternity because time works differently at the centre of a black hole. you wouldn’t die but you wouldn’t necessarily be alive either. it’s a paradox. 

he feels like a black hole. like if there’s a black hole at the centre of the universe, maybe there’s a black hole at the base of his spine slowly expanding and taking bits of his personality and stretching them out until they no longer resemble what they once were. it just feels like he’s pretending now. like he’s pretending to be this whole other being, with a personality that doesn’t exist anymore. the person doesn’t exist anymore. the thoughts and feelings don’t belong to him. 

everyone sees him as a seperate and whole and very distinct person. they attach a name to his face. they have separate feelings about him that he can’t control. he’s a person to them. the collective them. everyone. 

phil, tommy, wilbur. his classmates, his friends.

who are they. 

who are they?

the fucking problem is that they seem two dimensional, like flimsy cardboard cutouts. it’s hard to see them seeing him as a person, because he doesn’t see them as a person. it’s the hardest thing ever to explain.

because do they really have a relationship? they know things about each other. but it just feels like he doesn’t know them, like they’re so far away from each other, separated across solar systems, like he’s the milky way and they’re andromeda. like there’s some millennia of empty space between them. fun fact, the milky way and andromeda galaxy are destined to crash a very very long time from now. eons after the sun will have expanded and swallowed the earth, the galaxies will collide. collide is a bit of a strong word though. the galaxies will simply just drift into each other, combining into one. in millions of years there will be a completely different sky from the perspective of where earth used to be. and for some reason that thought makes him very very very sad.

fun fact, if you looked at earth through a giant telescope from millions of light-years away theoretically you would see dinosaurs on a young earth. the universe was already ancient by the time the space debris came together by chance to form the ground you walk on, form every chemical you've ever breathed, every thought you've ever had, every civilization that's ever fallen. fun fact, this fun fact is fucking him up. fun fact, these fun facts are not actually fun facts. they’re existential crises. 

he feels numb. 

he also wants to cry, or maybe scream, or do something very very bad. 

if he could get out of this fucking bed. 

it’s just that’s the weight of everything is pressing him down into the sheets, liquid mercury threading his veins and lead in his bones. chemicals formed inside nuclear explosions and the hearts of stars. 

he swings his legs over the side of the bed is hit with a wave of dizziness so strong his vision goes momentarily white. breathe breathe breathe. oh god. his stomach cramps up painfully, his head throbbing. he stands on shaky legs. 

he doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what goal he has but all he knows is that his veins are humming with wrongness and hurt and hurt and hurt oh god it hurts. 

as he starts out of the room, he knows he looks like a wreck. sweatpants and a black hoodie with the hood thrown up to cover the dull pink hair and dark bags under dead dead eyes. his body is on autopilot, feet taking him down the hallway. every step hurt. 

wilbur is out. of course wil’s out, he’s always out these days. techno can’t really remember when they last hung out or anything. feels like it’s been eons. tommy’s out too, an occurrence happening more frequently the last few weeks. he’s probably becoming just like wilbur. it’s just what happens to kids that grow up too fast. they break. 

phil’s at work. he’s a single dad supporting himself and three teenagers, although he makes a good amount of money, his hours are long and strenuous. he’s definitely not neglectful, just sometimes not around. 

that’s okay. it just means that techno’s alone in this big empty house. 

he can tell it’s cold outside, trees shuddering from wind and house occasionally creaking. it’s dark, sun having long set behind the distant horizon but dull light still omnipresent. it’s one of those evenings. 

he has the urge to do something.

his feet bring him over to stand in front of the fridge. phil used to keep medication in the cupboard above it when they were kids because none of them were tall enough to reach. now all three of them tower over him. the medication still stays there though. old habits. 

he hums a song to himself as he rifles through the cabinet. the front bottoms, his mind clarifies. 

the tip of his fingers make contact with the bottle that’s been haunting him in his sleep. tylenol. he pulls it out, rattling from the pills inside indicating that it’s practically full. 

he stares at it. it stares back. the bright red container is contrast against his pale skin, skinny white tablets inside falling like sand in an hourglass when he tilts it. 

inadvertently he feels a slow bitter smile crawl across his face. 

he’s almost desperate enough. 

no. 

he is desperate enough, because the hurt clawing at his chest, the child wailing to be free inside of his ribcage haunts him. he wants to scream himself raw. he wants to yell until his throat closes up, rip his skin off and claw his way out of its bloody corpse.

and he wants it to be over. 

the childproof lid pops off with a harsh twist, and he empties the contents onto the counter. he stares. 

there’s no reason he’s supposed to be here. there is no greater purpose, no god, no meaning to this existence, no definition, no purpose. 

it doesn’t matter if he stays. the earth is still getting swallowed by the sun if he lives till sixteen or sixty. the milky way and andromeda will still be on a collision course, there will still be a supermassive black hole at the center of the universe.

his existence is merely a small blip, a dust particle in the face of everything that’s ever happened and everything that will ever happen. 

sure his family will be sad. sure they might have a hole in their hearts that they’d never be able to recover from. but someday they’re all gonna be dead too. 

it doesn’t matter. 

god he wants to scream.

he hums louder as he picks up a couple pills, then puts them down. mechanically gets a glass of water, comes back to the pills and picks them up again.

here we go i guess. 

he’s not gonna write a suicide note, because although he doesn’t plan to fail, it really would be quite embarrassing for your family to read your suicide note and you don’t even die. 

all of your last confessions, things you would only admit if you never had to see any of them again. 

he’ll probably just send a goodbye text or something, he decides, and throws the pills back. 

he’s always been rather good at taking medication. 

the first couple go down easy, but he gags trying to shove down the next handful and gulps his water. 

at least his body is trying to stop him. no one else is. 

there are hot tears streaming down his face and when did he start crying? they mix with the bitter taste of the tylenol. all he tastes is salt and medication.

he’s gulped down nearly half the bottle before he’s choking and gasping for air. he grips the edge of the countertop, steadying his shaking limbs. okay. 

he ignores how much he’s shaking as he attempts to stuff the other pills back in the bottle. he accidentally knocks it over again, pills spilling out onto the countertop and he decides he’s too tired to deal with it. staggering over to the kitchen table, he collapses into a chair and his head falls against the wood.

too late he realizes he left his phone in his room and almost sobs right then and there. he’ll just have to hope his family knows he loves them. because going back up the stairs suddenly seems like a monumental task, something so daunting and exhausting he’s tired just thinking about it. so he resolves to just sit here and wait for the end.

he kind of wishes he has some music to pass the time. it would be nice. he could just drift in between the notes and never come back. 

instead he’ll just hum that song again. be nice to me. 

he sometimes sat and just listened to that song on repeat because it was the only thing that made him feel something. now nothing could make him feel anything. still, the lyrics are practically burned into his brain, melody etched on the inside of his ears. 

a sharp pain twists in his stomach, nausea hitting him suddenly. oh. its happening. he knew it wouldn’t exactly feel good. probably beat slitting your wrists though. 

he hoped he could sleep through it, but his brain held him in a state of grogginess, suspended in limbo unable to fall asleep or even move. ugh. 

he silently urges it to hurry up and just fucking kill him already.

the warm wood of the table was nice to lay his cheek on, gave him a great angle at the family photos decorating every possible square inch of the wall. pictures of phil fishing, wilbur as a young kid, techno at his middle school graduation, tommy and tubbo, family photos and hundreds of memories strung up on the walls. 

he takes a shuddering breath. the house is so silent, heavily silent. 

the door creaks open. 

and techno freezes, every cell in his body going rigid. panic seizes him and his eyes widen. no. nononono, seriously? 

he hears someone scuffling around in the porch, the door slams shut.

please go upstairs, please go upstairs, please go upstairs.

footsteps head toward the kitchen and he internally screams. he has just enough time to turn his face into the table and curl his arms protectively over his head before they come in. 

“hey tech.” wilbur. it’s wilbur. of course it’s fucking wilbur. 

there’s a pause. is he supposed to say something? oh right. he reluctantly straightens up, blinking his bleary eyes. he’s so dizzy the room is spinning.

“hi.” is all he can manage. god he sounds rough. makes sense considering his throat is dry and scratchy, probably from dehydration or y’know, the fifty or so tylenol he just slammed. wilbur’s image looks concerned, and comes closer. his face is blurry, out of reach. 

“are you… okay.” 

he huffs a small breath out of his nose. it’s not funny, considering the situation it’s so far from funny but god… is he okay?

“mhm.” nailed it. 

wilbur comes closer, pulling out a chair to sit next to him. he wavers, face uncertain. techno hopes the tylenol will hurry up. 

“oh my god are you on something?” wilbur breathes, reaching a hand out to gently grab his jaw and press two fingers into his pulse. his eyes widen.

“it’s so fast. oh god. uh.” wilbur says, the panic in his voice thinly veiled.

he gets up again, and heads toward the door and techno blinks. what? is he leaving?.

oh, the light. techno’s vision seems to have gone blurry around the edges as he keeps his gaze on wilbur. the teen in question flicks the light switch and dim amber light fills the kitchen. wilbur turns to come back and he just stops dead, eyes zeroing in on something beyond techno. his eyes widen, expression bordering on horrified.

...what? techno twists around sluggishly and oh. the pills. he looks back at wilbur, who swallows. 

“tech.” he says quietly. he strides closer to the table, sitting down again and takes a shaky breath. techno sighs. well, he tried.

“yeah?” 

“did you…” he looks like he’s about to start crying. techno sighs. he knows wilbur can't bring himself to say it. 

“if you’re gonna ask if i took half the bottle, yeah.” he said dully. wilbur’s breath hitched. 

“get in the car.” he said, voice wobbling and he grabbed techno’s arm. 

techno just let wilbur lead him, legs too unsteady to stand up on his own. wilbur snatched the keys off the side table, flicked off the hall light and shoved his sneakers on. he didn’t even bother with techno’s shoes, pulling him outside hurriedly and slamming the door behind him. 

his hands shook so bad it took a couple tries to jam the key into the lock and twist it shut. wilbur was scared. made sense for the situation. techno just wished he hadn’t walked in. god. how stupid? he should’ve at least put the bottle away. how was he supposed to know wilbur would come home?

wilbur headed towards the car and techno trailed behind him. he unlocks it with a blink of the headlights, and techno slips into the passenger seat. he knows better than to protest right now. wilbur hops in the driver's seat and frantically shoves the keys in the ignition. 

his stomach cramps up unexpectedly, and he doubles over panting. 

“ohh god.” wilbur mumbles to himself. he puts the car in reverse and fucking slams on the gas. the car flies out of the driveway. 

they don’t speak, and the tension pricks at the back of his neck. the silence is so thick you could cut it with a knife. 

wilbur makes a sharp left and nearly flips the damn car. his stomach violently protests, nausea welling up and making him gasp a little. techno glances at the dials through a haze of pain and sees that wilbur’s going almost one hundred in a fifty. 

“wilbur you’re goin’ fifty over the speed limit.” he mutters, mouth quirking up. it's a little funny. 

“shut up.” wilbur says halfheartedly. he stares straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles are turning white. 

someone’s not having a good time. well i mean, not everyday you walk in on your little brother trying to off himself, then have to take him to the hospital before his liver starts failing. but whatever. 

techno looks out the window, scenery blurring as it rushes by too fast to register. his vision starts going dark around the edges. it looks so cold outside, one of the coldest nights in probably a while. it’s fitting. dimly he thinks he’s shutting down. good. 

he leans against the window, pressing the side of his head into the cold glass. his eyelids are feeling extremely heavy, fluttering with the effort of staying awake. 

his whole body feels heavy. 

“tech? oh nononono stay awake okay?” wilbur sounds frantic. techno tries to mumble something but it doesn’t come out very coherent. 

“love you.” he slurs. 

“fuck.” wilbur yells, frantically slamming on the horn. “fucking move.” 

techno’s vision fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAS THAT GOOd i kinda feel like i've been building it up a lot so i hope that lived up to ur expectations lmfao AND WHY DOES IT LOOK SO SMALL ITS THE LONGEST CHAP BY FAR???  
> a l s o  
> adhd: i'm granting u one hyper focus  
> me: oh boy! what will i do! my seven assignments due this tuesday?  
> brain: :)  
> me:  
> brain: MCYT ANGST FANFIC


	8. this thing hurts like hell, but what did you expect?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG TIME NO SEE,,, hello i am actually alive, (storytime) i started this chapter in december, but then i was on the verge of alcohol poisoning and was like,,,, huh maybe i should become mentally stable SO I DID but i still couldn't figure out what to write for this damn chapter..... it's a little short but i said fuck it maybe it'll make me feel something~~~~
> 
> tw // throwing up, dissociation, self harm mention, suicide attempt, hospitals

“tech? wake up.” a voice murmurs in his ear. colorful lights dance behind his eyelids, almost like he imagines the aurora borealis would look. all blue and purple and yellow and green. he’s never been that far north, but he thinks he’d like to visit someday.. 

he feels hands shake his shoulders gently, and the pressure in his head builds. his tongue is dry. why is his tongue dry? 

the car is warm and soft, and the wind whipping outside makes him content to just stay here. why do they want him to go?

“tech please.” why do they sound so desperate? 

there’s a warm hand on his cheek, and it’s the same hand that had tied his shoes for him when he was way too old to not know how, the same hand that braided his hair when it had been a little longer, the same hand that had always held his and wilbur in the other, the hand that had never raised against him. 

“i’m coming.” he mumbles. someone is sobbing, and it sounds like wilbur. he pries open his eyes, and everything’s hazy, like he wasn’t wearing his glasses but he’s pretty sure he is, so why…? 

“you’re gonna be okay.” why wouldn’t he be? his dad stands in front of him, leaning down into the car and his thin smile isn’t doing a very good job of hiding the concern in his eyes. his mind is incredibly hazy, thoughts floating past his stream of consciousness, yet not staying for very long but… did he do something? 

you tried to kill yourself and now you’re dying in a car in the parking lot of a hospital, his brain helpfully supplied through all the smog. oh. right. he kind of wants to laugh. wilbur’s still crying, forehead pressed against the steering wheel and arms wrapped around his middle. 

“we have to go.” says phil, and grabs his arm gently, never not gently and pulls him to his feet. he feels like he’s trapped inside his own head, because all he can do is stare ahead blankly. the car door shuts behind him. wilbur doesn’t get out of the car.

phil’s walking fast, almost too fast to keep up. but he does, feet moving against his own accord. his head is fucking pounding. that was the stupidest thing he’s ever done. stupid, stupid. now he was going to have to go through this whole embarrassing ordeal of going to the hospital, and then going home, and the big talk, and…

tommy. oh god, tommy. he’s thirteen, his brain screams at him. thirteen, and so young, yet so old at the same time. how would he take this? if he’d been successful it wouldn’t have mattered, but he wasn’t, he failed miserably, and it was going to crush tommy. fuck. 

the hospital smells like, well, a hospital and it’s surprising empty. its like nine pm on a wednesday. of course it’s empty, no ones here but stupid suicidal teenagers. he can feel phil’s tension in the way he holds himself, as if he’d fall apart if he lets go. 

they walk up to the front desk, and the young secretary turns in her chair, and looks at them over her glasses.

“hello! why are we here today?” 

phil is silent, and suddenly he finds his mouth shaping the words involuntarily.

“i’m overdosing.” he finds himself saying bluntly in the face of phil’s tension, like he doesn’t want to say the words himself because that would make it real. 

the woman, to give her credit, doesn’t flinch and simply nods. phil hands over techno’s health card with shaking hands, and techno stands there and watches because this doesn’t feel real at all, and there’s nothing he can do about it. it feels like he’s watching himself from somewhere very far away, limbs moving not because he asks them to, but because they just are.

“you can head right into emergency.” she says. and they walk, phil finding his hand and squeezing it and he doesn’t let go. somehow it feels like a slap to the face. techno tries to squeeze back. he tried to die, it didn’t work, and now he has to live with it. 

phil pushes open the door with a big red “emergency” across the top. techno feels his brain threatening to go into shutdown mode, the blissful whiteout of dissociation lurking on the corners of his vision. it was always there, always omnipresent. always. 

he’s standing in the hallway, and between one blink and the next he isn’t. he’s sitting on a hospital bed, still in his hoodie. the doctor is smiling, and phil looks incredibly upset. 

“...going to be fine.” the doctor was in the middle of saying, “it probably was the combination of dehydration, malnutrition and exhaustion. all we need to do is insert an iv to get him some nutrients, and get all the medication out of his system with activated charcoal.” 

they were gonna what? his tired brain scrambles to process the words that were coming out of the doctor’s mouth. all too late he realizes what this means and his eyes widen minutely. He’d need to expose his arm. phil would see, they’d all see. 

a nurse comes into the room, and phil sits in a chair right next to the bed. what was he gonna do now. 

“alright sweetie,” the nurse begins, so chipper despite the situation, “roll up your sleeve.” he freezes, and so does phil suddenly, as if a realization had just dawned on him. 

“can’t you do it in my hand?” he mumbles, and he knows phil knows but he wants to protect even a shred of his dignity. he can’t see. 

“i can try, but it looks like there’s not a visible vein there.” she explains, but complies with his request. she uncaps the needle, and techno isn’t scared because he’s done worse to himself. phil is still looking at him with a kind of quiet intensity, like he’s trying to convince himself he’ll wake up soon and it’ll have been a bad dream. they’re not that lucky. 

she tries three times to get the needle into a vein, but it just ends up poking his skin uncomfortably. eventually she sighs, and looks at him apologetically.

“sorry hun, we’re gonna have to do the arm.” he nods. the nurse pulls out a fresh needle, and when she turns around again he’s still sitting there frozen. 

“alright, pull up your sleeve now.” very slowly he grabs the hem of the sleeve and inch by inch, pulls it up over his elbow. the nurse’s frozen smile doesn’t waver, and she ties a piece of cloth around his upper arm and works on putting the needle in. techno pointedly turns his head away from phil, he doesn’t want to see the look on his face. he knows what it would look like, and he knew he’d feel nothing if he saw. techno feels too raw and exposed, all his thought processes scrawled into his wrists on view for everyone to see.

he’s attached to an iv. huh. the nurse is hooking up a bag of clear liquid to the drip, going directly into his bloodstream. it doesn’t feel real, it feels like he’s watching his body from an outside perspective. his head is fuzzy, and he wonders how he managed to fuck things up this bad. jesus christ. he doesn’t have his phone, his mouth is dry, his head fucking hurts, and he can feel phil’s fucking pity from all the way over here.

it’s annoying him, dully. through the haze, annoyance pricks at him and he fucking wishes that he’d died instead of having to sit here and pretend he had normal emotional reactions. he hated when people were sympathetic, just the thought of having to talk about it with his dad made him want to gag. 

someone came in, holding a cup and a bucket. he mentally sighed. he couldn’t even fucking die the right way, and with how fragile the human body is you’d think it was easy, but it isn’t and now he has to survive this humiliating bullshit. at least he’s not really processing this fully, because if he was he’d be freaking out.

“now, this is activated charcoal. don’t worry, completely safe to drink, this is going to absorb all the toxins and you’re going to throw it up.”

he stares into what’s being held in front of his face, a black sludgy liquid bubbling in the styrofoam cup.

are you fucking kidding me.

he grabs it, staring at the doctor with what must be an incredulous look because the doctor chuckles and gestures at the cup.

“go ahead.” maybe he’d underestimated how long it would take for the tylenol to kill him… because he was starting to think that just refusing to drink and waiting wouldn’t work. either way, he resigns with a sigh and chugs.

it’s fucking disgusting and tastes like, well, rocks, but he has three pairs of eyes on him so he forces it down. it was… distantly a little funny. he kind of wants to laugh, but he’d look crazy and if they already weren’t planning to, they’d throw him in a psych ward for that alone. god, how did he get himself in this situation?

he drained the cup and looked at the doctor, hoping his disgruntled look conveyed the pain he was in. why couldn’t they add a fucking flavouring to that shit or something.

it doesn’t feel like it’s real, it’s not his hands that pass the empty cup towards the doctor, it’s not his body sitting here, it’s not his veins attached to the drip. he’s here, but he’s not.

it’s disconcerting, but familiar. it’s better this way, he doesn’t have to hurt.

well, until he starts throwing up. in the corner of his eye he sees phil wince at him gagging into the garbage can, tongue most likely stained black, black as his fucking spit was. gross. suicide isn’t beautiful, it’s messy. he knew that. he knew that before he did it because suicide is messy, death is messy, and being alive is horrible and broken. but against all odds, he’s alive.

techno’s alive.

between gags, he heaves a breath harshly and despite the black spit dripping down his chin, and the lines jaggedly carved into his arm, and his greasy hair, and the bags under his eyes, he’s alive. he’s alive he’s alive he’s alive. and it doesn’t feel like a miracle, or sunshine and rainbows, or he’s suddenly sorry for what he tried to do, but he breathes, and he’s alive. he’ll start there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls tell me u liked also again i'm from the land of eh eh maple syrup so hospitals are different don't come for me

**Author's Note:**

> title: be nice to me - the front bottoms  
> chapter titles playlist:  
> 1\. be nice to me - the front bottoms  
> 2\. twin size mattress - the front bottoms  
> 3\. be nice to me - the front bottoms  
> 4\. funeral - phoebe bridgers  
> 5\. rip to my youth- the neighborhood  
> 6\. i can't handle change - roar  
> 7\. be nice to me - the front bottoms  
> 8\. the sea is a good place to think of the future - los campesinos!
> 
> disclaimer: absolutely not trying to romanticize any of these issues i write about at all, i really want to portray them realistically from personal experiences :)


End file.
